Yestalindë
by Lily Ardellian
Summary: Every song has a beginning. For Firohir Peredhil, a return to Imladris is the match to a tinderbox that will eventually burn his soul.


The horse cantered to the top of the hill. Its coat was as dark as night and only marked by a white flame shape on his forehead. Once at the top, it remained unmoving, the Elven warrior he carried now completely still.

Behind it, more riders emerged from the forest and made a circle around the first rider. Firohir Peredhil thought for a moment, trying to place the heavy armour and almost closed helmet of what seemed to be the captain of the Imladris guard. He had once met the captains, twin sons of Elrond of Imladris. The rider in silver was not one of them. Of slighter build, he carried himself just as well and held a long and sturdy sword in his hand, the standard that was once that of Gil-Galad, High King in his other hand.

Soon, his confusion was complete, as Elladan and Elrohir emerged from the trees. The riders let them pass and they conferred a few moments with the silver rider. The black horse reared without as much as a movement from his rider. He decided it was better to approach the problem and make his presence known.

"Lords of Imladris, I bid you welcome." He shouted from his position, raising an arm. Soon, the twin Captains and their unknown companion were upon him. Elladan was the first to recognise him.

"Why, Firohir Peredhil! It is you. I thought the voice was familiar." He dismounted soon followed by his brother. The enigmatic rider stayed on his horse. Firohir and the twins clasped hands. The firry eyes of the rider did not leave him, as concealed as they were under the helmet.

"It's good to see you again, Firohir. You were sorely missed while you were with the Rangers of the North." Elrohir said. "And what is more, your presence is now essential to us in the coming battle. Orcs are trying to regain their strength. If we do not break them now, war will be ever at our door."

The Half-elven nodded. He understood the logic of war and the need to kill Orcs before they could reach critical numbers. He heard a snort behind them and turned.

"If you spent less time talking and more time hewing those ugly heads off their shoulders, we can all head home."

It was the silver rider who had spoken before turning his horse towards the rest of the troops. He opened his mouth to retort something harsh when Elladan laid his hand on Firohir's shoulder.

"Do not mind our companion. But we should get going." They all mounted their horses and headed towards the assembled troop of Elves and Rangers. The silver rider was at the front, still holding the standard.

As the twin sons of Elrond took their place on either his sides, the rider handed the standard to one young looking Elf on foot. The youngster bowed and planted the standard at the top of the hill. Below, the orcish encampment could be seen, smoke billowing from numerous fires. At the signal, all riders started forward and Elves on foot ran noiselessly behind them.

An alarm sounded in the camp and Orcs started pouring out of huts and holes in the ground. Firohir watched the silver rider tense and let out a battlecry like he had never heard an Elf utter. It was a Rohirrim battlecry. The black horse bolted forwards and his rider drew his sword. Firohir took a moment to admire the sword, long and straight, a fine Elven blade.

In the blink of an eye, the Orcs were upon them. Soon, heads and blood started flying. While he was killing Orcs who were firing arrows at his allies, he spied the silver rider on foot, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, slitting throats and piercing bodies with a ferocity seldom seen among the First Born. His armour was almost entirely covered in blood, now dark and obviously orcish.

Firohir's momentary distraction allowed an Orc to pass his guard and shoot an arrow into his right shoulder. He dropped his sword and fell to one knee. Orcs started swarming around him and he could do little but push them back slightly with his axe. Soon, they would slip beneath his guard again.

An Orc approached and the pain of the arrow blurred his vision for a second too long. The fell creature's mouth split in the semblance of a smile, cruel, evil mockery of a smile. Firohir waited for the blow that would send him to the halls of Mandos. It did not come. He opened his eyes again.

The tip of a sword was protruding from the Orc's chest and the others had scattered. As the Orc fell, Firohir could see the helm and armour of the silver rider. He opened his mouth to thank him but the pain overtook him and darkness claimed him.

A cool hand rested upon his brow… It soothed the pain of the arrow in his shoulder, calling him back to the land of the living. The poison needed to be drawn and he needed to be awake. A soft voice spoke to him in the language of his father, but he could not understand it. For all his years of travels in the North, he could not understand the words.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a pallet, the arrow in his shoulder still protruding. The forest was around him and no sounds of swords could be heard. He assumed the battle won. The smell of Orc blood assailed him as the armour of the silver rider came to view.

The hand belonged to the silver rider. He was talking in a low voice and looking at him. Firohir struggled to sit and when he did, the arrow was wrenched from his shoulder. He howled in pain. The hand returned and the pain diminished. His vision cleared and he beheld the face of the silver rider.

The eyes were still fiery but the hair was as dark as night, like the horse's coat. He had expected a blond elf lord. His eyes travelled down to a soft looking mouth of pink lips and an oval that should not have been seen atop silver armour. The face he was gazing at was that of a maiden. Her braids had come undone and the hair cascaded down on her shoulders and armour.

"Peredhil, are you conscious?" she asked in a soft voice, so different from that of the silver rider he had heard.

"Are you an angel of Mandos?" he retorted in a slight daze. The illusion of a soft maiden vanished as the eyes shone with fire once again.

"Certainly not!" She said in a hard voice, getting up from where she had knelt beside him. "I am no angel and you had better get up, or I will leave you here."

Elladan approached at the edge of Firohir's vision.

"Ahhh, I see our Peredhil is awake, excellent. I see Lady Morwen has taken care of your injury."

"I would not recommend her as medical aid. She kindly wrenched the arrow from my shoulder with the delicacy of the Edain."

"Do not compare me to those… disgraceful creatures."

He opened his mouth again, as the Elf called Morwen stalked away.

"Who is she? Why is she so cold?" He asked, still in a daze.

"Morwen is our sister." The Elf replied. "She is as good a warrior as we are and has trained with us for many years."

"Sister? I thought Lady Celebrian had only birthed one daughter."

"It is so. Morwen is a foundling, saved from the waters and certain death by Arwen herself. Our parents took her in and she is now sister to us. Her name is Nieenuvar Morwen, of Imladris. If you will excuse me, I will find her now. Do not breathe a word of her presence, Father would have never permitted her to ride in battle." And with that, Elladan left. Firohir rested his head against the truck of a tree and thought about the warrior maiden he had just seen.

She could wield a sword as well as man or Elf and certainly didn't shy away from combat. Her soft face came before his eyes once more, as she had touched his feverish skin. Foundling daughter of Elrond, she had the bearing of a princess, even in the darkest battle and surrounded by the vilest creatures.

Decidedly, there was more in the last homely house west of the sea than could be thought. Firohir trudged through the mud and blooded earth. They would need to move again before nightfall, lest more Orcs came upon them.

His shoulder hurt still but it was now bearable. He touched it gingerly but found no horrible wound. Only a small neat hole that was healing slowly.

Far on the hill, he could see the tall silhouette of the Lady who had healed him. She had her sword in the clear and her bow attached to her back. Her gear was slightly different from those of the other Imladhrim. A forest green cloak that all but camouflaged her was thrown across her shoulder. She blended almost perfectly with her surrounding.

Morwen turned slowly, feeling the Peredhil's eyes on her. She didn't like the idea of a half Edain so close to her troops and certainly not fighting alongside her.

She walked down towards him at a brisk pace, once more donning the helm that was her and picking up the standard from where she had left it at the beginning of the battle.

"And what would a Peredhil do so far from the land of his kind?" she asked in a low voice, not wanting to be heard by the other Elf lords assembled nearby.

"I had news of Lady Celebrian's abduction and came to lend a hand."


End file.
